Anthem for Doomed Youth

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle ?

Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries now for them ; no prayers nor bells,

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, ―

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells ;

And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all ?

Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.

The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall ;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.